


Old Violence is Not Too Old to Beget New Values

by yonnna



Category: Baccano!
Genre: Bad Acting, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Abandonment, Gen, Torture, an alarming amount of severed limbs, excessive dramatism, he thinks he's his obi-wan but he's actually his emperor palpatine, luchino thinks he's using life but he's actually being Played, movie metaphors, poor mentor choices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-26
Updated: 2017-02-26
Packaged: 2018-09-26 15:08:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9908105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yonnna/pseuds/yonnna
Summary: Trust that is given easily is rarely given wisely; trust that is given cautiously still may not be given wisely. Luchino does not excel at using people, though not for lack of trying.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Huge spoilers for the end of 2002, but you probably figured that out.  
> I think I honestly lost the ability to determine whether any of this is coherent.

 

The businessmen have a soft spot for bad movies and boss, because boss seems to have stepped right out of one.

He delivers his speech, and it’s always a different speech but it’s always the _same._ It starts with a call to arms — his spine stretched straight, straining his neck for however many inches, centimetres, millimetres he can gain; drawing out his silhouette that it might resemble a giant more than a _boy —_ ‘ _gentlemen’_ , he says, voice like a clarion call, and they turn their heads and lift their eyes, pretending, in unison, that he stands as tall as his shadow does. The businessmen have a soft spot for bad movies, and boss plays his role with enough confidence to inspire them to play theirs, too. Some of them are heroes, because sometimes the boss is a hero, a man of pride and great, glorious legacy. Some of them are villains, because sometimes the boss is a villain, a calculating, callous creature. Low budget films cannot afford to fill in the grey of the moral spectrum, but the businessmen don’t begrudge this. Heroes and villains alike look up when they hear their call to arms, up, _up_ , up past the boy, up to the image of the leader he projects.

When all eyes are on him — no, _off_ him. When all eyes are on the looming figure which towers a head above him, wears his mask and veils him from sight, he details their strategy. These words are detached from his body; the mask’s mouth does not move to form them, sculpted frown still and unchanging while his voice carries the intonation of a smirk. A plan is always perfect until it goes wrong, so he tells himself _be smug_ , and until he shrinks back into his small frame he _is_.

They learn their instructions and their cues; they learn their roles, and they pick up their guns, like extras in an action film — but to themselves, they are heroes, or villains — and to the boss, they are _humans_ , though they would never know it. His mask always slips a little at the end. He runs out of his cold, precise, articulated language and casts about for something that sounds like a quote, something that sometimes _is_ a quote.

The businessmen have a soft spot for bad movies. Boss sends them off with a tagline, and they scatter to take their places on set.

 

* * *

 

 

“It’s not looking too bad.”

“Better than your face, that’s for sure.”

The bandage wrapped around his hand is pulled purposefully too tight. He winces, then grins.

“I kinda wish it was my whole hand —”

“What, you wanna be Captain Hook or something?”

“No! Remember that movie with the amputee robber and the jailbreak —”

“That movie sucked.”

“You’re one to talk. You seriously enjoyed _Manos: the Hands of Fate_.”

“Maybe if you showed it more respect you wouldn’t have gotten _your_ hand injured.”

The man laughs bitterly. His coworker narrows his eyes.

“Or maybe if someone had _helped_.”

“Hey, we were distracted! If you’re gonna blame anyone, blame boss.”

“C’mon, that’s not fair. He was halfway across the room.”

“Sure, but have you seen his reflexes? He’s not exactly _slow_.”

“Whatever — must’ve been busy.”

“Didn’t seem like it.”

“That’s just _boss_. He’s mysterious like that sometimes.”

“Guess you’re right.”

“It’s what makes him so _cool_.”

“Yeah.”

The businessmen exchange a nod. One glances down at the bandaged stub of his index finger and sighs, almost wistfully.

“... I just wish it had been the _whole_ hand.”

The other nudges him with his elbow.

“Hey, maybe you can be like Goldfinger.”

“What are you talking about? You know Goldfinger didn’t actually have a finger made outta gold.”  

“I was guessing. Never seen it.”

“You’ve never seen _Goldfinger_?”

“Eh, I don’t get the hype about _James Bond_.”

“You’re kidding.”

“It’s all just, you know, sex, action, sex, action — what’s the _point_?”

“ _That’s_ the point.”

“Pretty stupid point.”

“Whatever. Still no good characters missing fingers.”

“I can lob the rest of your hand off if it’ll make you stop whining.” 

There’s a beat; the injured man furrows his brow.

“Could you —? Wait, maybe not. It hurts like a bitch already.”

“No pain no game.”

“... I’ll pass.”

 

* * *

 

 

It’s not a movie, and the only thing the Mask Maker seems to make is _mistakes_.

The water has been running clear for five minutes now, but it still looks red to him. He scrubs — between his fingers, under his nails, against his knuckles. The splotches fade but are never erased, and darken each time he turns his hands over; whether they are imprinted onto his flesh or onto his eyes, they are imprinted permanently. He scrubs, roughly, forcefully, urgently. He would scrape his hands down to the bone if it would make them clean again.

He knows it won’t.

The businessmen deliberate on whether the boss is a villain, and to them, it is a title of _merit_ ; a villain, a cunning, calculating, callous villain, all cloak and dagger, all defiance and _purpose_. Heroes are flat, one-dimensional, _too_ good; maybe it would be an insult to call the boss a hero. Sometimes he wonders if they expect him to have a redemption arc — but that would mean the film ending, and they would rather have him trapped inside it, playing this role until he finds someone else to force into it.

His path to success is built on the brittle bones of bodies they’ve piled up along the way, and there’s no redemption waiting for him at the top. Perhaps he will drag a worse monster with him when the whole thing comes tumbling down; perhaps then he won’t feel his own body hit the concrete.

For now, he feels it. The first fall will always be the worst, and he braces himself for it (no mission will ever go perfectly; the dark shadows under his father’s eyes taught him this years ago), but he _feels_ it, the quaking, splintering crack of something breaking from within, and the ache it leaves behind. There’s blood enough on his hands for two, both enemy and ally, and he feels it, oozing from wounds that do not belong to him, coating his skin in thick layers. Feeling is unavoidable — so he scrubs until he doesn’t, until his skin is numb and worn down, until it forgets the cold of metal and the heat of blood. He will reteach it, again and again, but for now, he makes himself _stop_ feeling it.

“Take off your mask,” he says without turning.

The man in the mirror shifts, and he breathes a sigh. For a moment he might have mistaken him for the reflection of that familiar impostor, masked and motionless, standing straighter and taller than him — but he is Luchino now, no looming leader-like projection in sight, and the man is just another one of his subordinates.

“Hm?”

The tap switches off; a motion censor he decides against reactivating. He grabs a few paper towels to dry his hands and imagines the smear of red he leaves. His fingers clench more tightly than they need, tearing the paper into strips.

“If you want to talk to me, take off your mask. I never trust a man who hides his face.”

“Ironic, coming from a man who hides his face.”

His voice is muffled by the barrier, but his amusement is audible. It twists Luchino’s expression into a frown.

“That’s business. You’ll notice I’m not wearing my mask _now_.”

“I wasn’t talking about your _mask_.”

He moves to face him, his hands making tight fists at his sides. _What_ were _you talking about, then?_ is on the tip of his tongue, but he bites it back. If his stoicism is in question, better to reinforce it. He drops the paper towels into the bin and takes a step forward.

“Do you understand what an _order_ is?” he asks, with the intonation of a threat he has not yet decided upon. “I said take off your mask.”

He is spared the need _to_ decide. His subordinate lifts his hand and reveals his face, painted indifference giving way to a smirk. Luchino settles into himself again, letting the leader fade against the backdrop — a vague outline reflected only in the mirror behind him. There is no venom in his words when he speaks.

“I know you, don’t I?” He knows every one of his subordinates — but that isn’t what he means. He shakes his head, correcting himself: “You used to work with my — with the former boss.”

There’s little that stands out about the man, indistinguishable eyes, and average frame; it’s the way his grin lifts at the edges. He’s seen lips curl like that before, across a dinner table, in a room swimming with humour he was too young to understand and laughter he could not join in. A brief spell of that laughter spills now, and he feels his jaw tighten into a forced smile; he is his age, for a moment — a child, picking up on the cue to be amused, but not adult enough to know where the joke lies.

“Closely, in fact.”

“Yes, I remember.” Luchino nods. “— and yet you deserted him to work for me.”

“Oh, I’m _sure_ he would understand,” he says, and his humour is a puzzle for Luchino to solve. A challenge; _laugh with me_. He tries. He watches the man’s easy smile, waiting for a twitch, something to tell him when to react. His jaw aches with the anticipation of feigned laughter. “I hear he deserted his own _son_. Could you believe that?”

It’s a knee-jerk reaction when he draws back. 

Everyone knows. _Of course_ they do. They were there on the day he left, and all the days that followed. They all know, but they don’t talk about it to his face. It’s an unspoken rule in this game of theirs; they have their roles to play and he has his, and until the day he shatters the illusion, until he tells them that they are not heroes _or_ villains, that they’re all just human, that this isn’t a movie — until then, they pretend that they don’t see Luchino _the boy_ , Luchino _the child_ , Luchino who is thirteen and fatherless and motherless, Luchino who is _deserted_.

Because he is _boss_. Because who they follow defines who they are. Because if he is a villain then they are villains, and if he is a hero then they are heroes, and if he is not a leader then they are not _anything_.

This man does not crumble the way he ought to; he cracks the illusion, but only on one end, only on _Luchino’s_ end. He is _not a leader_ but the man remains a _follower_. The dissonance furrows his brow.

“I expect _you_ were closer than we were,” he says, voice like ice. “I don’t think of it as desertion. More like putting an end to a business transaction.”

 _Liar_ , he thinks, but the man nods. _Liar_ , he thinks, but at least he is a good one. He breathes in, and it only catches slightly when he listens to his response.

“I can see why you would choose to view it that way. Father-son relationships are difficult, more so when work is thrown into the mix,” he tells him, as though he _needs_ telling. He supposes he must be an even better liar than he anticipated to make that impression.

“Are you going to tell me the sky is blue next?”

“Strictly speaking, the sky actually _isn’t_ blue.”

“Is that right?” He folds his arms over his chest, eyes narrowing. “I was going to ask why you’re speaking to me, but now I understand it must be because everyone else has _already_ told you to shut up.”

“I only mean to say that you shouldn’t put too much faith in appearances,” he explains with a dismissive wave of his hand. “You may _think_ you know something without knowing the full extent of it.”

Luchino taps his finger against his forearm.

“Did you want something? I’m not interested in a philosophy lesson.”

“You faltered,” he responds, grin unwavering. 

“Excuse me?”

“I saw you out there. You faltered.” 

He is silent for a long moment, watchful. This man is one them, and yet he does not seem to know their rules. He critiques the role he plays, as though he does not like the script he follows, as though he does not _want_  this to be a movie. Luchino frowns. 

“You’re speaking to your superior,” he says, as though this might nudge him into recalling the part he was given. The man does not take the cue. 

“Yes, and for the sake of betterment, I’m telling you that you faltered. I don’t believe anyone else noticed — they’re all rather enamoured with you — but that doesn’t mean it bears repeating.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 _Liar_. Moving to the door at a pace much slower than the drum of his heart, he feigns another smile. Falling from grace will always hurt, but he wills himself not to feel it; he puts where he has failed, where he has faltered, out of his mind. He forgets the scream and the gush of red; he forgets that he might have prevented it if he weren’t so weak in the places he needs to be strong.

“You could have helped him — what’s his name? The one who was hurt today.”

He pauses. 

“Marco.”

“You know his name, yet you didn’t bother saving him? I wonder why that is,” but there is not any _wonder_  in his voice at all. “Is it because you knew that if you stepped in you would have to kill his attacker?”

He turns back to face him in quiet response, glaring to make his silence sound like a _warning_  rather than a loss for words.

“I understand,” he tells him, mouth forming a sympathetic smile. “You’re young — idealistic. You want to minimise casualties. You thought _better that he gets injured than that someone dies_.”

“Don’t tell me what _I_ thought,” he snaps. “We wouldn’t have gotten a bounty for him. _That’s_ why I didn’t step in. This is a business. We don’t murder for the fun of it.”

The man walks over to open the door.

“No, of course not.” He shakes his head. “But a business must protect its workers first, and if that means ‘murder’ —”

Luchino brushes past him, brusque. 

“If I want your advice, I’ll ask for it.”

He does not look back to see if the man’s smile drops, but chooses to believe it does.

 

* * *

 

 

“Really, boss, there’s nothing to talk about.”

“Just sit down.”

So he does. 

He takes the rigid, wooden chair across from the desk. His posture is stiff, watching the boss lean back, tent his fingers; with the stripes of light streaming through the blinds, he is reminded of some old clichés. He looks more film noir than _Bond villain_ , which might be a relief if his aura wasn’t a sheet of ice. 

The businessman swallows the lump in his throat and asks: 

“Am I getting fired?”

One fair eyebrow lifts in question. 

“Why would I fire you?” 

And he lifts his hand in answer. Dried blood stains the bandage; he makes a note to himself to change the wrappings once this meeting is over — if the boss doesn’t off him. 

It’s starting to look like a possibility. He runs through familiar plotlines in his head, and concludes that if he’s not getting fired he must be getting killed. He knows too much to go back to a normal life. That’s what the boss would say if this was a movie.

“It’s a minor issue. You’re still an asset,” he says instead, nonchalant enough that it relaxes his expression. “But that _is_  what I wanted to discuss, yes.”

He rests his elbow on the desk and leans forward, meeting the bussinessman’s eyes. 

“I was thinking a more clerical position — until you feel ready to work on the field again.”

“I feel ready _now_. It’s nothing, boss, honest —”

“It’s not nothing. You were injured on the job. If this were any other position you would get time off for recovery, wouldn’t you?” He lifts his shoulders into a shrug. “I’m not going to offer that, but I could use some help with managing requests.” 

There has been an increase in the influx of them, after all, since the initial doubt of the new leadership — of _him_ — had passed. 

“I’m good for field work! My right hand’s fine —”

The boss’ narrowed eyes stop his protests.

“You seem to be under the impression that this is a _choice_. It’s not,” he says, words drawn out deliberately. “As the leader of this organisation I have a duty to ensure that my workers are not put in unnecessary danger.”

 _A business must protect its workers first_. He sighs. 

“You’re not ‘’good for field work’ until I decide you are. Understood —?”

He’s interrupted by a knock at the door. He rises, and gestures for the businessman to leave with a halfhearted wave of his hand. 

“Clerical work,” he repeats, briefly. “Consider it an order.”

 

* * *

 

 

By the time he settles back into his seat, a frown has settled over his features. 

“Where did you find these?”

He thumbs through the first of the files splayed across his desk. _Huey Laforet_  it reads; it’s strange to put a face to the name. The photograph seems to stare at him, all the villain he is and _more_ , and his stomach twists in knots. 

“The former boss left them behind. I thought you might find them useful.”

Luchino does not tell him  _take a seat_ , just like he did not tell him  _come in_ , or _drop files on my desk_ , yet all of these things happen regardless. He looks at him pointedly and the man drops his mask, sets it down in front of him. He does not tell him to do this, either, yet he does. He acknowledges his authority, yet he does not. 

“You thought correctly,” he concedes, letting the folder fall closed. His finger drums against the wood, expression pensive. The more he knows about his enemy the better, but to have the knowledge fall into his lap so easily feels too simple, more a twist in a movie than a real world development.

— But they all have their roles, and if this is the one the man has decided to play, it at least explains why he seems so _other_. He’s not a follower, then, or not _just_  a follower. He has answers. 

Luchino cannot begrudge _answers_. 

“What should I call you?” he asks after a long moment, with a smile that is only half forced. “You’ve told me an awful lot without telling me your name.”

“Call me what you wish.”

“A suggestion would be helpful.”

There’s wry amusement in his voice, but the man’s grin disappears in response. 

“I’m afraid I can no longer use the name I was born with.”

He spends enough time lying to know an honest assertion when he hears one. He decides not to pry; these people who work for him, they all have _histories_. They wouldn’t be committing crime for a living if they didn’t. What those histories are has no bearing on his work.

“That’s all very well, but you must go by _something_.”

“Do you seek to learn every one of your subordinates’ names by heart?” 

Luchino straightens, brow furrowing. 

“I do, actually.”

“Ah...” His grin returns, slowly sneaking back onto his face. 

“Is there a problem with that?”

The man leans back in his chair and shakes his head. 

“Not at all, Luchino — can I call you _Luchino_?” There’s not a beat before he continues. “You impress me.”

There’s no derision in his voice, but surely —

“You’re mocking me.”

“No, I truly mean it.” He tilts his head, a glimpse of narrowed eyes through the veil of his fringe. “Do you know how uncommon it is for a leader to care so profoundly about his followers?” 

To Luchino’s ears, this is not a compliment. The Mask Maker is not supposed to care. He is supposed to be detached, cold, indifferent. He gives himself frostbite with attempts to freeze his heart over, and now he is accused of _caring profoundly_. 

“Don’t make me sound so soft.” His tone says that this is a command. The man does not follow it. 

“Soft? Not at all.” He shakes his head, frowning slightly. “Using people as tools, that’s a simple matter — anyone can build an army of tools — but to _earn_ their service? To forge bonds with them? To win their loyalty through mutual respect? It takes strength, it takes charisma, it takes — I mean it in the most positive way when I say it takes _cunning_ to know that that is required of you.”

Luchino opens his mouth to respond, but is not quick enough to decide _what with_. 

“I admire it.” He laughs, but not at a joke; he laughs shortly, warmly. “I believe that the ties you have to your subordinates will prove to be your greatest asset one day. A good leader holds that it is better to be respected than loved, but a _great_ leader knows that success comes when one is both, respected and loved, in equal measure.”

 _A great leader_ ; the words settle over him, not _unpleasantly_. He does not realise he’s smiling until he tries to frown, does not realise how much easier it is to breathe until he lets his breath out in a sigh.

“You can say all that, but not your name.”

“Names are fickle things,” he says with a flick of his wrist. “I could give you a dozen aliases — why, I could even give you my birth name if you ordered me, but neither would satisfy you.” 

The file on the desk reads: _Laforet_. At times he wonders who he would be if he shared this name instead, if he was not a Campanella — but a Campanella is _everything_  he is. Names are not fickle; names are defining. 

“What makes you say that?” he asks, creasing the page between his index finger and thumb. 

“You want to know who I am, and those things wouldn’t tell you.”

He rests his chin in the palm of his hand, half disinterested and half dubious.

“Then who are you?” 

“An ally,” is the man’s swift reply. 

“The trouble with that claim is that an enemy could just as easily make it.” 

Outside a car passes by, a flurry of flashing light and whirring engine. He glances up to watch the shadows move across his face, and something else; amusement sweeping over him in steady brushstrokes. 

“My goodness,” he says, the hum of laughter in his voice. “You don’t trust _easily_.”

With the soft creak of his chair, Luchino sits upright.

“You don’t deny it?”

“Isn’t that what an enemy would do?” He is ribbing him now, because the curve of his smile says that he knows these tropes as well as the boss does, as well as the businessmen do. He knows what role Luchino’s has him cast in, and he subverts it. “No, no, it’s natural that you have your doubts. I can’t begrudge you that. In time, I intend to prove to you that I am what I say. Until then I only ask that you consider me a humble follower.” 

Luchino slides the files off his desk, holding them in his hands, heavy with facts, with _answers_. He only murmurs his response. 

“That will do for now.”

 

* * *

 

 

_Humble follower_  is not exactly a name, but if it is a casting call he lives up to the expectations.

Luchino is supposed to develop callouses for these things; he is supposed to have toughened skin in the places where he last hit the ground, but he still feels his knees scrape when he falls to them. Too soft, as always — and he will make himself stand on legs that ache with someone else’s pain, but not yet. His eyes take in the damage, the physical damage, the crumpled posture, fingers clenched tightly around the wound; he reaches out and his hand is met with pooling blood, and he thinks of the damage, the deeper damage, another splinter in the tenuous structure he calls an organisation. 

“What were you thinking?”

The bullet should be lodged in his flesh instead. He is the one who wasn’t fast enough. He is the one who wasn’t strong enough. There would be righteousness in accepting his punishment; there is only shame in seeing someone accept it for him. 

“Please,” the man says, and though his teeth are ground in agony his voice conveys professionalism; calm, resigned. “Don’t worry about me. Go on ahead.”

“You need —”

“No.”

His shoulders quake, and he recoils, hunching over to steady himself. His hair drops over his face, head hung low. There is strain in his voice when he speaks. 

“Go. The others need you.”

For a brief moment which feels much longer to him, Luchino’s gaze casts about the room, a frantic search for something — _anything_  that can help the situation, can bleed the guilt from his heart. It drums in his ears when he finally tears his hand away. He nods silently, and turns before the nauseating sight of his subordinate’s agony can sink beneath his skin. 

He runs; he does not know how long he runs for before the sounds of fighting, shouts and gunfire, drown him again. _Boss! — You alright?  — ‘Course he’s alright_. Of course he’s alright. The Mask Maker is always alright. His fingers clench tight around the hilt of his stiletto, willing his senses — _focus on_ this _, let this be all there is_ , and then it is, all there is, and it is easy again. 

(It is never _easy_ , but if he is not on the verge of being swallowed into a chasm of guilt and shame, it is easy _enough_.) 

One; slashed across the throat, quick, painless. 

( _Painless_ is a lie he tells himself, because it is easier than to acknowledge that all death is pain.) 

Two; plunged into the abdomen, spurting red, gore enough to cover the mementos of his subordinate’s suffering. 

(If he had looked, he might have noticed that these mementos had faded, that not a drop of blood clung to his hands before he sought to dirty them — but it doesn’t matter; blood clings even when it does not, imprinted onto his flesh or his vision or his soul.) 

Three is just  _dead_ , four is only  _a corpse_ , five is barely even  _a body_. 

Six feels like swatting a fly, until his mask clatters to the floor, then; then, it feels like murder. 

 

* * *

 

 

When he makes his list — and it’s practically routine now, to name each life he has stolen one by one while he retches them out of himself — he adds ‘humble follower’ as an addendum. He learned his inaction was a weapon when it severed one of his subordinate’s fingers; now he learns that it is a _lethal_ one, deadly as his blade. 

Like his blade, his inaction is his to wield, whether he wants it or not. He aims it at his own heart and lets it do the carving for him, so that when he returns to his office his chest cavity is as empty and hollowed as his stomach. 

As it should be. As it must be. 

The thing is, the people who make it onto that list are not supposed to make it _off_  it; he does not choke on the memory of them so that they can greet him in the flesh with an amiable smile. He might be angry, or at the very least surprised, but he is exhausted first, and emptied, and hollowed, and he barely manages to raise an eyebrow in question. 

“You’re not dead,” he remarks, with a tone that one might use to say _it’s cloudy today_ , or _you got a haircut_ — which, unfortunately, the man hasn’t. Bloodshot eyes sting when he narrows them. He closes them instead. “Or in hospital. Miraculous.”

He does not sound like he believes in miracles. 

He leans back against the door frame, waiting for a response; half-expecting not to hear one, half-wondering if the ghosts have found a way to follow him here, too.

“I’d hardly call it a _miracle_ ,” says the man, not at all ghostly; voice vivid and clear. “It was a shallow wound. Once I removed the bullet, fixing it up was a simple matter.”

To think that avoiding tragedy could _be_  a simple matter; Luchino’s breath comes out more haggard than he expects it to. 

“You did that yourself?”

“I worked as an apprentice to a doctor for a time. The experience has its uses.”

“I can see that.”

His flickering façade gradually fades back into being, and where he was empty he fills himself to the brim with his self-assured persona. He is aware of his trembling only when he steadies himself, and opens his eyes to see the man smiling — as if he was not witness to this sorry display.

“What do you think of ‘Life’?” he asks. The man tilts his head, but his grin does not diminish.

“I’m very fond of living if that’s what you’re asking,” he laughs. “Or do you mean what do I think of life as a _concept_? My, that’s quite philosophical —”

“I mean what do you think of ‘Life’ as a _name_ ,” he cuts in. 

“I’m not sure I follow.”

Deliberate footsteps carrying him over to where he sits.

“I don’t want you to be an ally _or_  a follower.” He folds his arms behind his back and turns his chin up so that he does not meet his eyes. “I want you to be a weapon.”

The man only sighs. Luchino takes this as the uncommon opportunity it is. 

“You’re familiar with Death, aren’t you? The concept as well as the man after today, I’d imagine,” he allows himself this moment of wit. “I want you to work with him. _Life_  and _Death_ , isn’t that clever?”

 _Isn’t it_  funny? Now he is the one proposing the challenge; _laugh with me_. He is sitting with the adults and yelling, through more dignified gestures — head held high, and higher still his vocabulary, the quality of his voice, his enunciation, his tone — for them to acknowledge that he can play their games, too. 

“As I’ve said, you have it in you to create far better assets than mere _tools_.”

It’s the lack of amusement in his voice, for once, which inspires Luchino’s ire. His stiletto doesn’t feel heavy when he draws it; it is an extension of his arm, light as air with its edge at the base of the man’s neck. The lack of killing force must take some of the weight off — and the movement _does_  lack this. He recalls how he had looked writhing in pain, and knows that he does not want to cause it. 

Knowing this does not make his words any softer. 

“So you refuse?”

“Refuse an order from my superior? I wouldn’t dream of it.”

His tilts his head back with a smirk which does not suggest inferiority at all. 

“I never said there was anything wrong with having tools _as well_. If you see some appeal in collecting toy soldiers,” — Luchino’s hand twitches — “then far be it from to stop you.”

For one very brief moment he wants to drive the dagger forward; to demonstrate that he does not consider his weapons _toys_ , or to stop him from talking, or both. He withdraws it instead. 

“Life, then?” he asks, but it is not a question. 

 

* * *

 

 

Sometimes it is possible to preserve the name of something without preserving its purpose; eat dinner off a writing desk and it will remain decidedly more desk than kitchen table. Confide in a weapon and it will remain decidedly more weapon than human — at least, this is what Luchino would like to believe. 

“You know, there is _one_  thing that still evades me,” he says, not quite shoulder-to-shoulder with the man thanks to his stature, but certainly side by side. There are, in fact, many things that evade him, but he carefully picks one at a time, making his vast ignorance smaller by fractions, too proud to admit to its vastness.

“And what’s that, Luchino?”

“ _Why_?”

The files he had given him had told him many things that the stories passed down to him had not; details, specifics. A tale which had been told to him in a few short words (’ _he killed her_ ’) is now a twisting narrative, and Monica is both victim and hero, fool and lionheart, a warning and an example — but still it does not tell why she _had_ to be made an example of.

“I’ve never understood it,” he admits, and for once his voice is earnest, childlike. “Why someone would kill the person they love.” 

“Do you need to understand it?” 

“I would like to.”

Life sighs. “But does it _matter_?”

“Maybe not, but it makes me...” He gives a cursory glance around to ensure that no one else is privy to the discussion, before dropping his voice to continue: “It makes me angry, I guess.”

“Hm." Life laughs shortly; he must be grinning beneath his mask, but it’s impossible to tell. “Have you ever been in love, Luchino?”

The only thing he knows about love is that his ancestor died for it, and this goes without saying; perhaps other fourteen-year-olds would contend to experience such emotion, inflating their schoolyard crushes until they look divine, but he has no room in his life for it. He is the Mask Maker before he is Luchino, which means he is altogether too professional to care.  
  
This goes without saying so he does not say it, just shakes his head. Life sighs.  
  
"Then naturally you wouldn't be able to understand."  
  
He furrows his brow.  
  
"Are you saying that being in love explains his actions?"  
  
"I'm saying that people kill for all sorts of reasons. Wealth, power, _revenge_ ," he draws this word out, and Luchino imagines his lips curling into that now familiar grin, that _perhaps one day you'll see the humour_ grin. "There are even men who would enjoy seeing the person they love in pain."  
  
He winces, the suggestion hitting him like a punch to the gut. He has considered, in his life, a multitude of possible motives, but he has never stopped to consider that _enjoyment_ might be the one that fits into the puzzle. To enjoy killing — to enjoy killing someone he loved, no less; the thought sends a shiver down his spine. There has never been an explanation that could justify Monica's dying, but at times he has let himself think that there might be one that makes it comprehensible. His hands are not clean either — but he would tear his skin off if it meant they could be, and if Huey Laforet revels in bloodshed then a comprehensible explanation does not exist.  
  
In a sense, this is a relief.  
  
It makes hating him that much easier.  
  
"And who are we to judge? We kill, too."  
  
He shakes his head.  
  
"As a matter of business, not pleasure."  
  
Life lifts his shoulders into a shrug, as nonchalant as if they were discussing the ethics of stepping on ants.  
  
"It's the act that makes the person, Luchino," he says, calmly. "Whether we kill for work or fun, we cannot delude ourselves into thinking we are anything but villains."  
  
Luchino wishes he were wearing his own mask because he is sure the color must drain from his face. He has accepted that he is a villain, but never in comparison to his enemy; villainy is a sliding scale, and he has always taken solace in knowing that he has shades of heroism in him, too.  
  
Unless he does not.  
  
He can steady the line of his mouth into a tense frown, but he cannot help his pallor. He speaks to distract himself.  
  
"What do you kill for, Life?"  
  
"Hm? Oh, that's simple. I kill because it comes naturally," his voice sings, and Luchino cannot tell if this is honest or if he is playing his role — the role of a weapon, the role he has forced him into. "I'm nothing but a lowly criminal working with the talents he has."  
  
"You don't talk much like a lowly criminal," Luchino remarks, and quirks an eyebrow.  
  
"No?"  
  
"More like a scholar."  
  
"Every sinner has a past," is his vague response.    
  
"I believe the saying is 'every saint'," he corrects, smiling wryly.  
  
Life chuckles, hand coming up to cover his mouth as though his mask does not muffle the sound enough on its own.  
  
"Why, yes — but every sinner, too," He nods. "You'll find that most people have pasts, Luchino." 

 

* * *

 

 

Of course, if one uses a writing desk as a dinner table for long enough, some may begin to argue that it is rather more table than desk.  
  
And if one confides in a weapon constantly, one is bound to begin to question whether he is not an ally after all. 

 

* * *

 

 

  
"Do you think — no, it's a silly thought."  
  
"And? We're alone. You're allowed to be a bit unprofessional."  
  
Luchino tucks his pistol away in his breast pocket, eyeing the scattering of bullet holes — all close to the target's vital areas, but none exact. Perhaps he will never have the same coordination with a gun as he does with a sword, but having this thought only makes him want to prove it wrong.  
  
"You said you were close to the old boss," he says. He drums his fingers against his leg, gaze lowered to the floor.  
  
"Do you think he'd come back? If he heard that I'd captured Huey Laforet, do you think he'd —"  
  
"Be proud of you?"  
  
He is the sort of silent that speaks reluctant ascent. A hand settles on his shoulder, and he does not flinch away.  
  
"I think that he would have good reason to be."  
  
"But you can't say for sure," he mutters.  
  
"Who _could_?"  
  
He is betrayed by his own expectations, and feels anger for a moment — ire that this man who is given to providing answers has decided now is the time to run out of them — but the moment passes without action, and all he externalizes is a mask of indifference.  
  
Family to him was only ever business, he reminds himself, and he brushes Life's hand off.  
  
"They found one of the men from that cartel today," He switches the subject, and that's all it takes. He is the boss again, smiling coldly. "I hope you don't mind me ending this session early. I’ve put off speaking to him long enough."  
  
_Speaking to him_ , in this context, can only mean an interrogation; a fact of which Life is clearly aware.

“Why not ask Illness to do it?” Setting his gun down on the countertop, he turns to face him. “I’m sure she has more _creative_ forms of torture in her head than any of the rest of us.”

There is mirth in his voice, and Luchino is supposed to laugh, so he tries to; it comes out humorless, hollow. 

“You know she’d just throw up on him,” he says through a dry throat, trying not to think that he might, too — trying, even more, not to think of what _creative forms of torture_  this may allude to. 

“Then let me handle it,” Life offers. “I can get the information out of him in no time.”

“No,” he says too quickly. “No, you wouldn’t know what to ask.”

The man shakes his head, sighing.

“Then tell me what to ask.” 

“It’s not that simple —” 

“It must be tiring,” he interrupts, half critical and half compassionate. “Thinking so much. _Overthinking_.”

His brow furrows, but he does not respond. It is tiring, it _is_ , and they are not supposed to see that, but it feels somehow validating that he _does_. Validating, and concerning, and he cannot decide which in greater measure. How _much_  does he see? Is it only the dark rings under his eyes after long days like this, or is it the way his hand still sometimes trembles when he grips the handle of a dagger or a loaded gun, or is it the pale of his face following missions, or is it his own voice, weary however much charisma he tries to embellish it with? Or is it —

“You’re still a boy.” Or is _that_? “And no, I don’t say that to belittle you. You have proven at every turn that a boy is just as capable of leading as a man.”

He touches his shoulder again, and his voice carries — compassion, it must be. “I say it because children need room to grow, and it can’t be easy under the weight of so much responsibility.”

Condescending, compassionate — maybe they are the same thing, or always have been to his ears. 

“Lend me some of that weight. Give yourself a break, Luchino, and let someone else do your thinking, for once.”

He exhales slowly, taking a few seconds to decide what he will say next.

“And if you do it _wrong_?”

“Then you’re welcome to correct me.” Luchino cannot place his tone when he adds: “I am one of your weapons, aren’t I?”

 

* * *

 

 

He wants it to look wrong in his hands. He wants his posture to be off. He wants his stance to be poor. He wants to be the only person breathing who can hold Monica’s stiletto the right way because this is his birthright and this is his _gift_ —

But it does not look wrong in his hands, and Luchino wonders, could he see himself and compare, if it would not look _better_. More natural. He stands tall without straining his neck. He wears a mask more comfortably than he wears his face. He exudes confidence without saying a word. 

Seeing him wield her stiletto, he thinks: _this is what the Mask Maker is meant to look like_. A professional, not a boy, not a _child_. He _is_ what Luchino does his best to imitate. In that moment he admires him as much as he hates him, and hates himself more. 

“I wonder how good a shot you’ll be with only one eye.”

It’s like a line out of a movie — except it is not, not when he says it. When he says it there is nothing forced or artificial about it; it is real, and so is the blade hovering at the hostage’s eyelid. No cloak, _all_ dagger, and it only takes a few moments of indignant silence for it to jut forward and fulfill its promise. 

After this, there is not much silence to be found. The hostage’s arm jerks against the rope binding him back, instinct to attempt to cover the open wound, and he makes a sound that would be a shriek if he did not force his mouth closed with a painful _clash_  of teeth. Life only moves to pull the blade away, grip so steady that Luchino is almost distracted from the blood dripping down its edge, and then continues his calm questioning amid grunts of pain. 

Luchino finds his own fist tightening at his side, imagining that he is the one holding the stiletto, without tremors, without nausea. He struggles to keep acid from rising in his throat just watching, but he imagines. 

“... Hm. How about with _no_ eyes?”

There is blood, more of it than he would be able to stomach spilling, but while breathing in the scent of iron all he can focus on is the movement, the posture, the certain strikes of his dagger — _her_  dagger — _the Mask Maker’s_ dagger. The hostage’s head hangs low now, and his eyes are like leaking faucets with droplets the colour _Luchino_ always sees, no matter how long the water runs clear, but this time it is not the lens of his guilt; red drips onto his shirt in angry splotches. He writhes, and there are more movements, more cuts, all precise, all professional, and then he spews out something that sounds like an answer. 

Life must hear what he says because he laughs; all Luchino hears is pain. 

“My goodness, you gave in quickly. What a coward you are.” His words ooze amusement, and Luchino tries to force out a wry laugh, too, but his throat constricts so that he can barely breathe. “You know, cowards are so dull — always giving up and running away before the best part!”

He imagines that he is in Life’s place, and in his imagination, he has put the stiletto down; he has won the information he needs, and he is free to drop his mask and retreat. Life does not drop his mask. Life does not put the stiletto down. Life aligns it with the hostage’s thigh and presses, slowly. 

“I wonder how well you’ll be able to run with no legs. A failure, even as a —”

“That’s enough.”

He is lucky his voice comes out calmer than his heartbeat. 

“That’s all we needed to know, Life,” he says, putting on his most convincing smile to quell the uneasiness in his stomach. A part of him wants to rip the stiletto from his hands, because it is _his_ , and every crime committed with it is _his_ , and he cannot bear the extra weight of any needless ones. The man pauses, and so he refrains. “I don’t think we have to hear any more screaming from him.”

“Of course.” 

He nods, and he lifts the dagger away from the hostage’s leg, eliciting a pained breath. 

“The screaming _is_  getting boring isn’t it?”

He is so swift that Luchino does not register at first what has happened, until he hears the sickly gurgle and the sputtered cry; he sees the hostage’s shoulders shake with violent coughs, and by then he is choking on his own blood. All Luchino can do is prevent _himself_  from choking on bile. 

“Should I get someone to clean this up?” 

He is aware of his stiletto being pressed into his palm, but only vaguely; his fingers close around the handle out of mechanical memory, and he looks down, half surprised to see the blood passed onto his hand. — But of course there is blood. It’s his stiletto, and any life taken by it is his, too.

 _You killed him_ , or _I killed him_ ; they sound the same. 

He must nod, because Life turns to the door.

“You certainly don’t have a problem ignoring their pain,” he mutters, and it is — he thinks — a compliment, an acknowledgment of some great talent, but his mouth is dry; is it possible to aspire to something and be disgusted by it at the same time? It must be, because here is the Mask Maker as he _should be_ , a being he has always hated and always longed to become. 

“Goodness, that’s not it at all,” says Life, surprising him. “I would  _never_  ignore their pain. I practically _feel_ it.”

He does not look back to count the injuries, but wonders at how much shared pain the man must feel if this suggestion is true. He wonders at how calm he sounds in spite of it. He wonders at how much stronger he must be to know the effect of his actions and still sound lively in the aftermath. 

It _must_ be possible to be disgusted by something and aspire to it at the same time.

“You do?” 

“Of course.”

 _I’m the same_ , he wants to say, but this is not true, because he is not strong. _I_ feel _the same_ , he decides is truer, _I feel their pain_. _How do you manage it? How do you laugh through it?_  he wants to ask. He wants to know.

He wants to _learn_ , but his pride is too great to stoop to admitting this; his pride says _this man is nothing but a tool_ , and raises his chin a little higher. 

“Most men would struggle if they understood the target’s suffering. You must have a talent for separating business from personal feelings,” is what comes out of his mouth instead. Nonspecific.  _Most men_ , but not him, not the leader of the Mask Makers. For all he knows, he has this talent, too. 

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“Don’t be modest, Life.” Knowing that the man has his back to him, he does not force his expression to match his tone. “It’s impressive.”

 

* * *

 

 

Luchino begins to doubt that the fist fall is the worst; after three years, hitting the ground a hundred times, he still feels it. His skin does not grow back tougher or more calloused; it is thin as it has ever been, and far too easily torn. 

He is sixteen and Death is dead, and perhaps he would appreciate the irony if it did not knock the air out of him. He tells himself this is the same as a weapon breaking — inconvenient but replaceable. He might be alive if he’d been there to lead the mission. An inconvenience, he tells himself. He was dying anyway. He was always replaceable. He was always going to _have to_ replace him.

It’s an inconvenience, that’s all. 

It’s an inconvenience that he feels the weight of every tragedy he is not able to prevent. 

It’s an inconvenience that every person he puts faith in fades like a shadow from his life.

It’s an inconvenience that the people he wants — _needs_  — alive are the people cursed with mortality.

It’s an inconvenience that the person he wants dead is _not_. 

“I could have prevented this.”

“He was more than capable of handling himself. It’s not your fault he didn’t.”

He says something else. Something about _perhaps he wanted to die_. Something about _he always said he’d rather go out in battle_. Luchino shakes his head. 

“I should have been there. I’m supposed to be leading them.”

“But you weren’t,” Life says, as though this is _easy_  to say. “There’s no changing that.”

“What sort of leader am I if I’m never _there_?”

There is an edge to his voice, anger tinging his words with hard consonants. He paces. 

“Causalities happen. Great leaders don’t allow them to trouble them — and you are a great leader, aren’t you?”

 _No_ , is the answer that comes to mind. He ignores the question. 

“I need you to do something for me.” 

“Hm?”

Every person he puts faith in fades, yet he holds that _he_ cannot possibly; he won’t desert him because he has already defected _for_  him, he won’t betray him because he is a weapon, and he won’t die because — because he is Life, and he lives. He is lucky that way. Luchino has decided this. 

“I need you to run the operation from the other ship. I know it’s a lot to ask —”

“I couldn’t, Luchino,” he says, humble only when he does not need him to be. 

“What happened today is not going to happen again. If I can’t be there to oversee things myself, then...” His feet stop. “Stand in for me.”

“I’m hardly experienced enough to take on a leadership role.”

Yet he has more experience than Luchino had — _has_. He furrows his brow. 

“I can’t be in two places at once, and there’s no one else who —” He pauses, steadying his voice, which has threatened to rise to a shout.  “... Please. I need someone I can trust.”

 _Trust_  is a strong word; it is also an honest word, but it is a strong word first. 

“That is, every great leader should have a second in command, shouldn’t they?”

“I’m honoured, but I’m afraid I’m a poor choice for the job.” 

He takes a deep breath, puts on a familiar mask. 

“Then I won’t ask you,” he says slowly. “I’ll order you.”

For all his reluctance, Life’s response is immediate.

“Well, I could never refuse an _order_.”


End file.
